


what a tale your thoughts could tell

by escherzo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cabin Fic, Canon Asexual Character, M/M, Masturbation, Relationship Negotiation, ace subtype fiction not people, trans!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21997867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: They've been living on top of each other for a week. It was bound to happen eventually.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 27
Kudos: 463





	what a tale your thoughts could tell

**Author's Note:**

> at some point i will write jm that isn't >50% ace feelios but today is not that day. yet another nebulous "somewhere between 159 and 160 in the safehouse" fic.
> 
> fanfic: cheaper than therapy! *jazz hands*

They've been living on top of each other for a week. It was bound to happen eventually. 

*

There's a faint sliver of moonlight falling into the room from the window above Jon and Martin's bed, and Martin is a warm presence by Jon's side, not close enough for contact, but his rumbling, steady snores are comforting all the same. The blankets are up to Jon's chin, and underneath, he huffs out an unsteady breath through his nose, palm digging in to the softness above his pubic hair as he carefully, slowly rocks his hips. He's not gentle with his body, three fingers pressing hard down just above his clit, hard enough that the tip of it can press ever so slightly inside of himself, the slick noises just barely masked by Martin's sounds. Breathing through his mouth would be louder, and so his increasingly shallow breaths are through his nose. He's barely gathering enough air. The insides of his ears are starting to ring with the lack of oxygen, and every movement sends an almost painful shock of sensation through his system as he slowly, carefully fucks himself. 

In his head, he repeats back to himself a phrase he'd read back before they went into hiding, a paragraph from an otherwise forgettable romance novel that had gotten to him so badly he'd had to put down the book and shove a hand into his pants, pulling himself off in a matter of minutes because it was either that or remember it all day at work, squirming in his chair, and he digs the nail of his middle finger hard into the hood of his clit as he comes, riding the sharp burst of pain and sensation, opening clenching around himself. He makes a tiny, bitten-off noise, and is so lost in it in the moment that he doesn't realize until it's too late that the sounds of Martin snoring have stopped. 

“Jon?” Martin whispers into the blackness of the room, muzzy with sleep. 

Jon is still twitching with the aftershocks. He doesn't dare speak; he knows how out of breath he would sound if he tried, and so he holds perfectly still, hoping that Martin will think he's dreaming. 

There's a long pause. Jon keeps his eyes closed, willing Martin back to sleep, but he can't hear the sound of Martin's breathing evening out, the soft snuffles that lead into snores, and his own heavy breathing feels so loud in the ensuing silence.

“You don't have to hide, you know,” Martin says, still so soft that it wouldn't be audible if not for the stillness of the room. “It's okay.”

“You're dreaming, Martin,” Jon tries, and he can feel his face reddening. Thank god the darkness can hide that at least. 

“I'm not,” Martin says. “Really. It's okay.”

“Can we talk about this in the morning?” Jon asks, and his voice still isn't steady, and there's no good way he can hide that. He slowly works his hand back up to his stomach, and the faint slick sound when he does is so loud it feels to him like the whole world might hear it.

“Of course,” Martin says. He reaches out and squeezes Jon's shoulder. “Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” Jon says. “Go back to sleep? I'm sorry for waking you.”

“It's alright,” Martin says. Jon can almost hear the smile. “I don't mind.”

The snoring starts again a few moments later, and Jon lets the wave of relief that washes over him from that lull him back into sleep. 

*

Jon wakes to the sounds of Martin puttering around the kitchen. Pans clanking, the faint whistle of the kettle, Martin's continued, muttered vendetta against the unevenness of the burners on the ancient electric stove of the safehouse. He sighs and stretches, muscles loose with contentment, and it's only as he's clambering out of bed and getting his slippers on that he remembers what he promised they'd talk about in the morning.

He walks to breakfast with a knot of dread in his stomach.

“Morning,” Martin greets him brightly, levering fried eggs onto a plate. “Did you sleep okay?”

Like the dead, Jon doesn't say, because while it's true it brings up old and ugly memories of the aftermath of the Unknowing when he says that to Martin (he's learned that the hard way). Instead, he just nods. 

“If you want to try having some, uh, non-avatar food, I made enough eggs for both of us?” Martin says, chewing on his lower lip, and Jon smiles and accepts the plate from him. 

“I can give it a try,” he says.

He's not hungry. Not for that, anyway. But Martin looks so contented as he finishes up cooking them both breakfast, making them both tea, that he's happy to try all the same. 

“So,” Martin says around a mouthful of egg. “Uh, I mean, I know you said we'd talk about this in the morning, I can wait if it's a problem? I just, you know.” 

Jon is immensely grateful in the moment that he doesn't need to eat standard food anymore, because the twisting in his gut just now would make him unable to manage so much as a bite. 

“Right,” he says. “Ah. Well.”

“We can wait! We really can. Do you want the salt and pepper?”

“It's alright, Martin.” 

“I didn't mean to—interrupt. Just, the bed's really bouncy and so when you move around a lot it wakes me up?”

Jon isn't fair-skinned like Martin and so his blush isn't as obvious as it would be on him, but he knows it's enough that Martin would be able to tell anyway. “No, no. I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize!” 

“I do owe you an explanation, though,” Jon says, attempting a bite of egg. It does taste good, although it doesn't feel like it's going to do anything for his hunger. The hunger under his skin is as constant as a pulse, radiating out into every part of him, and no amount of tea and eggs will touch it. Life as a monster, he supposes. 

“You really don't,” Martin says. He sounds so earnest, and his eyes are so big and kind, and Jon could take the coward's way out, but all Jon can think of in the moment is Peter's words about how little he and Martin know each other, and he just—he can't. 

“I am very bad at talking about this,” he begins, shaking his head. “I just—want to start there.”

“I had sort of heard you—didn't,” Martin says. “With all that.”

Jon sighs. “It's complicated. I... I do want to make clear, I am perfectly capable of getting through sex.” He knows his face is red. Talking about this so explicitly is worse than getting a rib extracted, but. It's Martin. 

Martin, halfway through a sip of tea, sets his mug down with a clunk. “Oh, Jon,” he says.

“What?” Jon asks.

“Getting through?” Martin asks. His face is doing something complicated, past the point Jon is able to read, but his brows are furrowed and he looks like he might want to cry, a little. 

“What about it?” Jon asks, and it comes out sharper than he intended. Martin winces. 

“It—god, Jon, that's not something that should be a _getting through_. That's awful.”

“Well I'm sorry for being _defective_ , then,” Jon says, his whole body like a rubber band about to snap. He doesn't want to be rude to Martin. He doesn't. 

“No, no,” Martin says, flailing his hands. “That's not something wrong with you! Just—just the thought that you've just, um, _gone along_ with things that you didn't really want to do, that's the awful part. Have, uh. Have you?” 

Jon shrugs. This whole conversation is an open wound, and he might as well prod at it further. God knows he's got enough scars. “It's not that bad. I don't mean to make it sound like I wasn't consenting. I was. I was an adult perfectly capable of making those decisions.” 

“There's a reason people talk about _enthusiastic_ consent,” Martin says, soft.

“I don't think I'm capable of that,” Jon says, unable to hold back a self-deprecating huff of laughter. “So. To lay all of our cards on the table. God, sorry, I'm not used to having to actually talk about this.” 

_But you're worth that_ , he doesn't say.

“I, um. I have a fairly high—drive. It's just not... directed at anyone. You know how I was on testosterone, before?”

“And then you were in a coma and it wasn't maintained because we all thought you were dead and then after it was easier to just—not have to explain yourself to doctors so you didn't go back on, yeah.” 

“Right,” Jon says, taking a great gulp of tea to give himself the distraction from having to talk for a moment. “When I first went on, I had to, ah. Seven or eight times a day?”

“I went through puberty, Jon,” Martin says, and his voice is awash in fondness. “I understand. I'm not sure how you didn't get carpal tunnel, but I understand.”

Jude Perry could come and put both hands on Jon's cheeks and they wouldn't be any hotter than they are now. 

“I still... generally need to do things once or twice a day. But I'm not thinking about _myself_ involved when I do. It's other, more abstract people. I have tried with... more people than you would think, given the whole “he doesn't” that you've heard. And it doesn't work. It only works at a safe distance.” 

“Have you ever—watched people?” Martin asks. 

“The Avatar of the Beholding as a voyeur,” Jon says, and he can't help but laugh. “You'd think. But no. Georgie and I went to a few... clubs, when she was helping me figure myself out. And it doesn't do anything for me. It's just thinking about things I've read. When I was still on hormones, I could watch videos and that would do something. But as of late it's just words. Romance novels, erotica, that sort of thing.”

Martin stays silent for a moment, cutting his eggs up into increasingly smaller pieces. 

“Well,” he says, finally. “Mostly I write poetry, but I'm happy to—branch out. You should tell me what you like.”

“I—“ Jon is at a loss for words for a moment. “Really?”

“If you'd be okay with me watching, I'd love to watch you, because even the little bit I heard last night was _incredibly_ hot. And if I knew it was something I'd written for you that got you going? Even better. But I'm happy to do whatever you're comfortable with.”

“You can watch,” Jon says. God, this level of Martin _knowing_ him is unbearable and wonderful all at once, like an echo of a fresh statement settling into his bones. “And, ah. Well. If it works for me, I'd be happy to let you fuck me, after. Since it wouldn't hurt then. I want you to be happy too.”

“I don't need it,” Martin blurts out without hesitation. 

“I know. But I want to. I do... care for you a great deal,” _love you_ , he isn't quite brave enough to say, although at this point they both know it. “I want you to feel good, too.” 

“Okay,” Martin says, reaching out to brush a bit of hair out of Jon's eyes, his movements so gentle and careful Jon can't help the lump in his throat. “I'd like that. If you're sure.”

“I'm sure,” Jon says. 

*

“What do you think?” Martin asks, holding out the pages to Jon. There are three of them, handwritten, and Jon is halfway through reading the second before he can no longer physically hold back and squirms, legs squeezing together. 

Martin's smile takes on a wicked tone, and all Jon can do is nod and clutch at the page harder, reading the words over and over as the pleasant, painful twist in his gut overwhelms the rest of his senses. 

“This will work,” he says faintly.


End file.
